Shattered Lullaby

by Rebecca York

  “Everything’s all right,” she murmured.

  “Yes.” At least for now. For this moment. In this bed.

  Too weak to resist his need for her, he let his trembling hands glide over her narrow shoulders, along her slender arms, feeling her skin tingle under his fingertips. One hand moved to her silky hair, shifting the strands between his fingers like spun gold.

  She made a little sound in her throat, but she didn’t pull away. He touched his lips to the tender place where her hair met her cheek. There was no way he could make love to her now. But even in his weakness, he wanted her—more than he had ever wanted any other woman. Or had it become impossible to separate sexual desire from the need for comfort?

  They held each other in the darkness, his face against her shoulder, her hand cupping the back of his head, and after a while his shivering subsided. He was warm again, warm from the inside out.

  “Better?” she asked, her lips close to his ear.

  “Yes. I think Dr. McQuade’s medicine is starting to work.”

  “She said you’d feel better quickly. But you have to stay in bed for a few days—and keep taking the medicine.”

  “Um,” he answered, noncommittally. It didn’t matter what the doctor had said. He must leave as soon as he had the strength.

  Perhaps Jessie knew what he was thinking, because she drew back so that she could study his face. He was glad that the sliver of light coming from the hall hid his expression. Not a muscle in his body or his face twitched as he held himself very still.

  “You have to take care of yourself.”

  “Of course,” he agreed, but he couldn’t let her start asking questions about his motives—or his fears—so he made a quick change of subject—one that he knew would throw her off balance. “Is this your bed?” he asked.

  He watched her swallow before answering. “Yes.”

  “Dr. McQuade will think we are lovers,” he heard himself say.

  She drew in a quick breath, and he knew he’d succeeded in distracting her.

  “Lucky for you I’m harmless at the moment.” Well, relatively harmless, he thought, as his hand moved to the front of her and cupped the fullness of her breast. Somewhere in his mind he was astonished—and horrified—that he was taking such liberties with her. It was as if the combination of being sick and waking up in her arms had made him drunk, and he was no longer in control of his actions.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in a strangled voice.

  “Something I’ve wanted to do for a long time,” he admitted, holding his breath, waiting for her to pull away. Instead she closed her eyes and lowered her forehead to his shoulder. Her breast quivered in his hand like a soft, frightened bird. Gently, his fingers stroked her, feeling her nipple harden at his touch, hearing her breath quicken.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” she whispered in a voice so low he could barely hear.

  “Yes,” he agreed huskily, turning his head to nibble along her cheek, amazed to find that his body could respond more fully than he’d expected. “Querida,” he murmured, his free hand sliding downward to cup her softly rounded bottom and pull her closer.

  “What did you say about being harmless?” she asked in a low, inquiring voice.

  “You must have magic powers.”

  “I hope so,” she replied, sounding half teasing, half serious.

  With a little sigh of regret, he forced his hand away from her. “In the morning, you should remember this as a dream.”

  “It’s not a dream. It’s real. If you want it to be real.”

  “It cannot be,” he answered with a kind of desperation.

  “So this is like the night we had dinner,” she challenged. “We got close, then you acted like I didn’t exist.”

  The pain of rejection in her voice made his insides clench, yet he went on relentlessly. “No, this is different. Tonight I’ve been using my illness as an excuse to touch you.”

  If he thought he could force her to drop the subject, he was wrong.

  “You want to touch, but you don’t want to get close,” she accused.

  He longed to tell her she was mistaken. He wanted every sweet, tender gift she was willing to bestow on him, but he had vowed to hide the depth of his need.

  Instead, he fell back on male bravado. “We are very close,” he murmured, moving his hips against hers.

  But she’d caught on to what he was doing. “Stop trying to change the subject. You know I don’t mean physically. I mean close in the sense of sharing our feelings.”

  He said nothing.

  In the darkness, he heard her swallow. “Miguel, being pushy with men isn’t my style. I’m saying things to you that it’s hard for me to admit.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then don’t back away from me this time,” she pleaded. “You and I could...could mean something important to each other. I think we both know it.”

  He dragged in a breath and let it out, cursing himself for giving in to temptation. “I shouldn’t have started anything,” he said with a weary sigh.

  “Why did you?”

  I need you—more than I have ever needed anyone in my life. But the words stayed locked in his mind. Instead he made a dismissive little noise. “This discussion is using up my energy.” Easing away from her, he flopped onto his back, feeling as if he were the one who had been abandoned.

  In the darkness, he felt her hurt radiating toward him. Then her fingers dug into his shoulder. “Be honest with me. What are you afraid of, exactly? That I’ll end up like your lover, Anna?”

  He turned back toward her. “What do you think you know about Anna?”

  “Enough.”

  He made a sharp sound in his throat. “Not as much as you imagine.”

  “All right, what do you want to tell me about her?” Jessie challenged.

  It didn’t matter. He should let her think what she wanted. Instead he answered the question. “She was my sister. Not my lover.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “She died because of me,” he added hoarsely. “After my father died I thought I was helping her live a better life. Instead I got her killed.”

  “How?”

  Desperation sharpened his tone. “Jessie, do not ask me about the things that have happened to me. Do not get involved.”

  “I am involved. Isn’t that obvious?”

  This time he didn’t allow himself to answer, hoping against hope that she would let it alone.

  Instead she asked, “Why don’t you tell me about Carlos Jurado?”

  His whole body stiffened. Was this all some sadistic trick? Was she like Juanita, the one who had tried to trade his life for money? Gripping her by the shoulders, he shook her.

  “Miguel, you’re hurting me,” she gasped.

  “Where did you hear that name?” he demanded.

  “From you. You said it.”

  “I couldn’t have.”

  “You did!”

  His mind scrambled, came up with dim memories, and he cursed richly in Spanish as he eased his grip on her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry.” He snorted. “And apparently paranoid.”

  “Who is he?” she persisted.

  “What did I say about him?”

  “Nothing I could make sense of,” she replied evenly.

  Maybe. Tonight, all he could do was hope she spoke the truth. Before she thought of any more questions, he turned his back on her and stared at the faint light coming in around the edges of the window shade, thinking that he should never have let her bring him here. But he was too exhausted to do anything about it.

  JESSIE LAY STIFFLY beside Miguel, listening to the harsh sound of his breathing. It had been a long time since she had spent the night with a man. And despite their fleeting intimacies in the darkness, it was pretty clear he’d be happier if she found somewhere else to sleep.

  She had thought—

  Well, it really didn’t matter. The bottom line was that nothing had changed. He still di
dn’t trust her enough to tell her why he was on the run—although he’d certainly given away more than he’d intended.

  It would cut the tension considerably if she’d simply decamp to the couch, yet she was too stubborn to flee her own bed. So she lay there in the dark, trying to relax as she replayed the events of the evening. Sometime near morning, she actually fell asleep.

  She awoke with a start to find the bed empty. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, she was astonished to see that it was almost lunchtime.

  She should have been at work hours ago. Luckily, nobody had called to check on her. Probably Erin thought she was at the rec center, and the center thought she was downtown at the office.

  When she didn’t hear any noise in the house, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and hurried down the hall, hoping Miguel was in the bathroom, but it was dark and empty. And he wasn’t lying on the couch in the den, either.

  He was gone! And she should be happy to be rid of him. He wasn’t worth the agony. But she didn’t really believe it. Seized by a feeling of dread, she pulled on a pair of shoes and pounded down the hall to the front of the house.

  “Miguel?”

  The living room and kitchen were just as empty. Then she saw that the back door was ajar. Slipping outside, she saw her houseguest standing by the van. Dressed in the rumpled sweatpants and T-shirt he’d worn last night, he was inserting the key in the lock—the key that she was pretty sure had been in her pocketbook the last time she’d looked.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Her voice rang out as she charged out the door and straight toward him.

  His body went rigid. Instead of answering he hunched over the lock, and she felt her anger surge. She’d brought him home, moved heaven and earth to get him the right medication, and done everything she could for him. Now this was the thanks she got. Clamping her hands on his shoulders, she tried to shove him away from the vehicle.

  He turned, and she saw his face was beaded with perspiration. Lord, he shouldn’t even be on his feet—let alone drive.

  “Let me go.”

  “Are you crazy?” she gasped, as she struggled to turn him away from the van. “You’re a physician. You know damn well you’re too sick to get behind the wheel.”

  He gave her a long, tense look. “I will manage,” he replied between gritted teeth, as he tried to free himself from her grasp.

  “Don’t do this!”

  “I have to. I cannot stay here with you.” He redoubled his efforts to escape. In desperation, she drew back her hand to shove at him. It was then that she heard the squeal of tires behind her.

  She and Miguel both froze. Slowly she turned to see who was pulling up at the house. To her horror she saw a police cruiser planted squarely across the entrance to her driveway.

  Chapter Five

  With a feeling of unreality, Jessie watched a uniformed officer climb out and move purposefully up the driveway.

  Of all the damn bad luck, she muttered under her breath.

  “What’s going on here?” the cop demanded in a sharp voice.

  “Let me handle this,” she hissed to Miguel, hoping he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

  Without waiting for a reply, she raised her chin and faced the patrolman, noting that the name tag on his shirt read Waverly.

  “What’s going on?” he repeated in a louder voice, as if he thought they were both hard of hearing.

  “Nothing,” she answered.

  “Your neighbor saw this guy was getting ready to steal your van. Now it looks like you’re out here trying to stop him,” Waverly observed.

  “No!” she retorted in a strained voice. Unfortunately, the cop was no dummy. He had just delivered a pretty good analysis of the scene.

  Behind her, she felt Miguel’s whole body tense. He would bolt, she thought. And then he’d be arrested.

  She cleared her throat, wondering what she was going to say. What came out was, “My boyfriend and I overslept. We were just having a little argument about who gets the transportation this—uh—this afternoon.”

  “Oh?” Waverly raised questioning eyebrows.

  “It’s no big deal,” Jessie added, moving back so that her arm slipped around Miguel’s waist. “Just a little misunder-standing, wasn’t it, honey?” she asked, running her fingers up and down his ribs.

  Miguel’s arm came around her in what she hoped looked like an affectionate embrace.

  The cop’s eyes moved from her to Miguel, and she wished her houseguest had stopped to shave or comb his hair or change out of the clothing he’d slept in.

  “You feeling okay?” Waverly asked.

  “We were up late last night,” Jessie replied. “That’s why we’re getting a late start, you know.”

  “Is that the way it is, buddy, or do you let your girlfriend do all the talking?”

  She watched Miguel draw himself up, make an attempt to relax the muscles in his jaw and shoulders. “We were partying pretty late,” he answered carefully, yet he wasn’t totally able to wipe the soft Latin accent from his speech.

  Waverly continued to scrutinize him. “You don’t look so good,” he said.

  Miguel shrugged.

  The cop’s next words cranked up her tension another couple of notches as his gaze stayed fixed on Miguel. “Step away from the van. Why don’t we go into the house while I find out what’s happening here?”

  Jessie shook her head. No way was she inviting this guy into her house. “We’re fine. Really.”

  He gave her a long look, then focused again on Miguel.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Miguel Diego.”

  “Let’s see your identification.”

  Jessie held her breath, wondering what Miguel was going to do now. Did he even know she’d stuffed his wallet into the pillowcase last night? Did he have a driver’s license?

  To her relief, he reached into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulled out the wallet. Calmly he extracted a plastic card similar to her own and handed it to Waverly, who examined it more carefully than he would have done hers.

  “How long have you been a resident of Baltimore, Mr. Diego?” he asked.

  “Two years,” Miguel answered, and Jessie felt her heart lurch. She knew that wasn’t true.

  “And your country of origin?”

  “I am an American citizen,” Miguel said, his voice firm.

  “Oh?” The syllable held a note of surprise—and challenge.

  “My mother was an American. I lived with my father in San Marcos for several years, but I was educated in the States.”

  “I see,” Waverly answered as if he doubted the account. “And what’s your line of work?”

  “At present, janitorial,” Miguel said tersely, sounding as if he’d rather admit that he ate worms for breakfast.

  “For whom?”

  “I am between jobs.”

  “What’s your address?”

  Miguel reeled off an address—not the one she’d visited the night before, she noted.

  “How did you two meet?” Waverly asked, keeping the questions coming hard and fast.

  “She works at a recreation center in my neighborhood.”

  “Your girlfriend supporting you?”

  “I have money saved,” Miguel retorted.

  “So why did you need the van this morning?”

  “I was going to check in at an employment agency.”

  “Which one?”

  “United Employment.”

  “You stay here often?” Waverly asked, keeping up the rapid-fire interrogation that he’d established.

  “No.”

  “Why did you need the van?” he asked again.

  “I told you, I’m looking for a job!”

  Hearing the note of exasperation in Miguel’s voice, Jessie interrupted, “I think you’ve established that everything’s okay here,” she told the officer.

  He gave her a long look. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”<
br />
  After several seconds of silence, Waverly reached into his pocket and brought out a card, which he handed to Jessie. “Here’s my number. If you need any help, call me.”

  “I will,” she said, clenching the card in her palm.

  As the officer made his way down the driveway, Jessie gave Miguel a cautioning look. “Are you okay?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he replied, but the edge in his voice was like a knife that had just been sharpened.

  “Let’s go in.”

  He followed her inside. The moment the door was closed, she hurried down the hall to the living room and looked out the window.

  Waverly was sitting in his cruiser. Jessie’s fingers dug into the edge of the business card as she waited for the patrol car to pull away from the curb. Instead of starting the engine, the officer sat pondering the house.

  Hearing footsteps behind her, Jessie turned and almost bumped into Miguel. His expression was grim as he stared through the window at the cop. “Why is he sitting there?”

  “He thinks you might try to get back at me for all those questions,” she said, then took a breath and added, “I think we’ve got to convince him everything is just fine.”

  “How?”

  Jessie turned toward Miguel. “Act like you’re happy he’s leaving us alone, and that you’ve changed your mind about going anywhere.”

  He looked as if he wasn’t sure how to accomplish that objective.

  “You could kiss me,” she suggested, trying to sound casual, yet hearing the thickness in her voice. Lifting her face, she looked up at him gravely. “It won’t work unless you make it look like it’s your idea,” she whispered. “If I kiss you, he’ll think I’m only trying to placate you. You have to pretend you’d rather make love than fight,” she added in a rush.

  He stood without moving, without bending, and her heart stopped. Then a sigh swept over her as she watched his expression melt. Need flared in his eyes as he gazed down into her upturned face. Inch by inch, as if savoring each small movement for its own sake, he bent toward her, his arms coming up to pull her close. She caught the scent of mint toothpaste as his mouth hovered millimeters from hers. Then, with infinite gentleness, his lips settled and began to move over hers.